


Calligraphy

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canon Compliant, M/M, On Hiatus, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm keeping the pen, though. The only way you're getting it back is if you come back for it personally. I'd give any amount of pens to see that..."</p>
<p>After the loss of the most important person in his life, Jean is just doing whatever he can to cope - which includes hanging onto the pen he stole from Marco weeks ago. A pen that might be the key to getting more back than just his sanity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in canon, but with artistic liberties taken as needed. (Just hang with me! I promise it doesn't deviate from canon too much!)
> 
> I know there are tons of ghost AUs out there, so thank you for reading mine! 
> 
> More to come soon!
> 
> \--
> 
> Also, [I have a tumblr](http://quartetship.tumblr.com/) amd I'm currently open for requests! :)
> 
> \--

_It's been six weeks now. Six weeks since you left me on my own. I don't really like using the other word, it feels too final. I know this is final, though. I stopped trying to convince myself otherwise a few weeks ago._

_That doesn't mean I don't wish you would come back. I think about that almost every day. It would be so much easier to get through everything that's going on right now if you were here. But since that's not an option, I write in this thing. I even use the pen you left behind. Pretty weird, right? I just wish you were here to laugh at me about it._

_I'm not sure where you are right now. Maybe it would be easier if I knew. If heaven is a thing, you definitely belong there. I just hope I can make it there one day, too. Then again, some days I feel like you're still here, right behind me like you used to be. I don't know which idea I like better - either way, I hope you're happy wherever you are._

_I wish I could say I was happy right now. Things are getting easier, but I'd be lying if I said life sucked any less than it did before you left. Everyone is still the same bunch of assholes they've always been. Nothing has changed in that respect, at least._

_It's been six weeks, and things are still pretty terrible. I keep trying to push on because I know you'd want me to, and I want you to be proud of me. Kind of stupid, considering you probably can't see me, wherever you are. But it helps. So does writing this stuff down. I'm gonna run out of pages soon, though. Maybe I'll just go back through and reread this when I'm out. Or maybe I won't need the book anymore. Who knows._

_Goodnight, Marco._

 

Jean closed the journal and laid it on the bed beside him. He chewed on the end of the pen that had once belonged to his friend and let his eyes fall closed. He wrote in that book - the one Sasha gave him right after they lost Marco - every night, and he told himself it was helping. As he drifted off to sleep in a room that felt way too empty without anyone beside him, he still wasn't quite convinced.

 

\--

The sun woke him before he was ready. Without Marco on the bed beside him to block the light, it always hit his eyes insanely early. He cracked one eye open and wiped at his face as he sat up reluctantly.

Beside his foot he noticed his journal. It was laying open, with the pen perched across the edge of the page. Jean reached down to close it, to tuck it away like he should've done the night before. When he pulled the pen away he noticed the book was open to one of the few remaining unused pages. In the middle of the page, his name was scribbled in someone else's handwriting.

_Jean?_

His eyes snapped open fully and he stared down at the page. Who had written on it, and who the hell was touching his journal? He snapped the book shut and held it up, voice still hoarse as he let the question fly without thinking.

"Which one of you assholes touched my stuff?"

A collection of muffled replies came back as he jumped to his feet, looking around the room.

"Seriously! Someone's had their hands on my private shit. So who was it?"

"Nobody wants to touch your privates, Jean!" Eren mumbled. Jean was a step and a half away from hitting him when Armin's decidedly more serious voice stopped him.

"Jean, don't! Listen. I was the last one awake besides you, like always. You were the first one up - no one would've had time to mess with any of your stuff. You probably just moved it yourself last night and don't remember."

"Someone wrote in it. It's not my handwriting. One of you guys had to have - look!" He flipped the book open and tore the page out. A few of them squinted toward it in the low light as he waved it insistently. "Why would I write my own name, in someone else's handwriting?"

A few shrugs and nods in reply, but no answers. Jean wadded the page into a ball and threw it in Eren's direction. Armin unfolded and glanced at it; Eren looked back up at Jean and laughed.

"Sorry someone bothered your diary, princess. But that's not my handwriting. And you know Armin wouldn't do something like that." The smugness in his voice turned Jean's stomach.

"I'm sorry, Jean. Maybe one of the other guys did it, but I doubt they meant anything by it. It was just a stupid prank." Armin said quietly. Jean dragged his hand down his face and nodded.

"Yeah. Stupid." He growled, and shoved the book beneath his mattress.

\--

He didn't write in the journal for a few days. Every time he thought about it, he remembered Eren's teasing and stopped himself. By the third night, he felt lonelier and angrier than ever. He pulled the book from beneath his bed and flipped it open.

 

_I still have no idea who wrote in this journal, but if I catch them doing it again I swear I will cut their arms off. Even if Jaeger swears it wasn't him, I might cut his off just to feel better. It's not like they wouldn't grow back, apparently._

_When stuff like this happens, I really miss you. I hate that everyone else still has someone here that has their back. Eren has a whole damn team. Connie and Sasha are great, but they're kind of a box set, too. All I really had was you, so now all I really have is this book._

_I wasn't gonna write in it anymore, but it felt like I was abandoning you or forgetting about you. I would never do that. I'm still here, even if it's just with a bunch of pages. Which I'll be running out of soon. Maybe Sasha can tell me where she got this book from. And maybe if I get a new one, I'll get rid of this one. Burn it or something. Seems right to me._

_I'm keeping the pen, though. The only way you're getting it back is if you come back for it personally. I'd give any amount of pens to see that._

_Anyway..._

_Goodnight, Marco._

 

He let the book lay open for a while, just staring at the page and spinning the pen in his fingers. Everyone else was asleep - except for maybe Armin, still reading quietly - and the dark was quickly lulling him to sleep as well. He laid his head down beside the journal, his arm stretched protectively across it, and let the pen fall from his hand. Only half conscious, he thought about how he used to poke Marco awake on nights like this, when he was too wrapped up in his thoughts to sleep well. He thought about a sleepy voice, tired eyes and that smile that was the same no matter what time of day or night he saw it. He was nearly gone, dreaming before he was even asleep, when he heard something scratching beside him. He opened one eye and thought he saw movement.

The pen.

He pushed up on his elbows and rubbed furiously at his eyes, but the pen was still moving. It was upright, as if someone were holding it, but no one was there. Jean tried to shout, but the noise caught in his throat. He stared; the pen kept swirling, leaving traces of ink behind it.

_Jean? Can you read this?_

The words appeared slowly, as if being written very carefully. He looked around, but saw nothing but sleeping people in the room. He still couldn't speak. Instead he nodded, hoping that was somehow good enough. The pen moved again as he silently watched.

_It was me._

"You? You what?" Jean hissed. Nothing. Understanding slowly set in as he stared at the unmoving pen. "In my journal, a few days ago" he barely breathed. "The writing."

_Yes._

He passed his hand over the pen, wondering if it would fall. When it didn't, he inhaled as deeply as he could manage and asked whatever was holding it a question, feeling pretty stupid when he heard his own voice in the quiet of the room.

"What... who are you?"

He stared at the pen for a few minutes as it stayed in one place, and began to wonder if he had said something wrong. Maybe he was just imagining the entire thing. When it finally started to move again he sprang to his knees, looking down at the writing that was really, very clearly on the page.

_Marco._


	2. Chapter 2

Jean snatched the book from its place on the bed and tossed it across the room. He stared after it for a moment, and then jumped down onto the floor, looking around at the others sleeping around him. _Who the hell thought this was a joke?_

"Alright, stop. Who did that?" He hissed. No one moved, no one spoke. He glanced back down at the journal splayed on the floor and waited to see if it would move. It didn't. He picked it back up and looked at the writing. It did sort of look like Marco's tidy handwriting, but in the low light he couldn't be sure. His eyes wandered back to the pen, sitting motionless on his blankets. "This isn't funny" he whispered, but still nothing stirred in the room except him.

He climbed back into bed, looking over the page repeatedly. The writing was definitely there, and definitely not his. He considered waking Armin to show him, but something stopped him. Embarrassment? Fear? _Excitement?_ He wasn't sure. The journal still in his hand, he spoke softly, as if to himself.

"If you're really there - if there's something here - why are you doing this? Why not just talk to me? Why can't I see you?" Say something!" He said the last part a little too loudly, and he heard the grumbles from a few of the others as they warned him to be quiet. Hearing no response, he tossed the book to the end of the bed where it fell open beside the pen. He watched but did not breathe as the pen began to move again, slowly tracing over the page.

_I can't._

He read the writing aloud, softly. In response, he whispered into the silence, still glaring at nothing.

"Why not? That's stupid! This is probably just some stupid trick that one of these assholes is playing on me right now. How am I supposed to believe you if--" He was cut off by the sound of the pen scratching against the paper.

_Jean, please._

The air was torn from his lungs; he could almost hear the plea in Marco's soft voice. He bit his lip, still frowning defiantly, but nodded. "Ok. Ok, fine. Say that I do believe you. Why are you doing this now? How long have you been... here?"

_A few weeks, I think. The whole time._

"So why didn't you say something earlier? You know, maybe when I was crying every night for a solid week, or..." He trailed off, embarrassed. _Obviously he probably saw that, anyway_ , he thought bitterly. There was a moment's silence before the pen started moving again.

_I wanted to. I couldn't. It's taken me weeks just to get this far._

Jean hummed his acknowledgement, but kept his arms stubbornly folded. "Ok, so you can hold a pen. Very impressive. I still have no way of knowing that this isn't some kind of - how do I even know that you're really there?"

The pen dropped, and Jean wondered for a moment if he'd said the wrong thing again. "I... didn't mean to..." he mumbled, letting his arms fall free from each other. His voice caught in his throat when he felt a light touch trace over his wrist.

Two fingers, he guessed, skating across his skin in small circles. Then there were more, an entire hand, threading through his own fingers and squeezing lightly. He froze, unable to process a touch he couldn't see, and forced himself to breathe. The feeling of the other hand disappeared and a moment later the pen moved. This time, the pen moved to his palm, rather than back to the paper, and scribbled on the skin there.

_Believe me now?_

He stared down at his palm and nodded silently. The fingers returned to his, and he closed his hand around them. There was nothing there, nothing to see. But he could _feel_ the hand in his, and it was painfully, beautifully familiar.

"Marco" he finally sighed, and he couldn't stop the tears that welled in his eyes.

_What's wrong, Jean?_ The pen scribbled a moment later. He choked back a sob and struggled with where to begin.

"What's - _seriously_ Marco? _This!_ This is insanity! I'm talking to a ghost or something. A ghost that used to be my best friend. I was just starting to deal with the fact that you were... dead. And now you're here, like this. Everything about this is wrong!"

The pen moved again.

_Do you want me to leave?_

"No!" Jean hissed before he'd even thought about it. "I already lost you once, I can't --" his throat grew too tight to speak through so he shook his head instead. "Please - I don't want you to leave" he finally whispered.

_Then I won't._

\--

The light of the early morning was seeping into the room before Jean was even aware of the passage of time. They'd spent hours with Jean asking questions and Marco scrawling his answers in the margins and corners of the journal pages. Occasionally Marco would circle or underline a particularly sappy line Jean had written on the pages there, or doodle around them while he was talking. Jean huffed and batted the pen away, still staring in disbelief when it poked him back playfully. It was only a pen, but it seemed to hold so much of Marco.

 

"So your hands are the only part of you that you've learned to make solid?" He asked after a while, watching the pen twirl absently through the air. It stopped in place and dipped back down to the paper, searching for an empty space to answer him in.

_Yes, so far. Why?_

"I don't know, just wondering" Jean said quickly. That did sound like an odd question, when he thought about it again. He laid his face into the crook of his arm, hoping his blush wasn't obvious.

_Weirdo_.

Jean looked down at Marco's reply and smiled - even _laughed_ \- for what might have been the first time in months. He wasn't ready to talk about _everything_ with Marco yet; the feelings he'd wrestled with since his friend's death were definitely beyond what could be considered _brotherly_ , and something he was still avoiding thinking about when possible. But having at least part of the other boy back in his life was keeping him from feeling the lack of sleep he would surely regret later that day. Marco, though, was decidedly more observant.

_Shouldn't you get some sleep?_

Jean rubbed at his itching eyes and sighed. "I don't need to. I'll be fine."

_Jean..._

"How is it that I can actually _hear_ you saying that in that tone? Just drop it, though. I'm not sleeping."

_Why not?_

"I'm just... really enjoying talking to you. Why's it a big deal if I don't sleep?" He didn't know where Marco's eyes were, but he looked down in fear of accidentally meeting them.

_You have to rest eventually. At least take a nap. I'm not going anywhere._

"How can I be sure of that?" Jean snapped. Maybe he was just tired, but it came out  sounding far more venomous than he'd meant for it to.

_What do you mean?_

The writing appeared more slowly, and it reminded him of Marco's tendency to stay calm even when _he_ was ready to snap. Jean thought of his steady voice, his smile, his laugh, and lost his wavering composure completely.

"I mean you've been gone for two months, Marco. You're still gone. I _found_ you, did you know that? I found you out there, and I watched them burn what was left of you. I held pieces of you in my fucking hands!" He stopped and tried to breathe, tears slicking both cheeks. "I've been so wrecked since that happened, and you know that. And you show up like this after all that shit, and talk to me for a few hours and expect me to go to sleep like that's _enough?_ It's not, Marco. I don't think I could sleep if I tried anyway, but I'm terrified that if I do, this will be some kind of weird dream, and when I wake up, you won't be there anymore." He panted, out of breath from trying to keep his voice at a whisper. His face burned; he buried it in his folded arms and stifled his crying.

He felt fingertips swirl through the hair on the back of his head, and sighed automatically. Marco had only done that to him a few times before, but it felt incredibly familiar, comforting. He lay still for a few more minutes, just letting that feeling wash over him and trying to even out his breathing. The edges of his thoughts grew fuzzy, hard to grasp as he focused on them less and less, instead thinking only of the person that felt so close.

 

When he peeled his eyes open again, more sunlight bathed the room. His chest tightened in panic; he scrambled for the notebook and pen.

"Marco?" He whispered, flipping to an open page. The sting of tears threatened his eyes as he waited for movement. Finally, the pen rose to the page.

_I'm still here, Jean. Get some more rest while you still can._

Jean gave a breathy laugh of relief and nodded hastily.

"You'll stay, though? You'll still be here later?"

_I'll be right here._

With that he felt the hand return to his hair, stroking through it calmly as he lay back down on his bed. He let himself drift away again, too exhausted to think about his still present fears, or the strange reality of what had happened that night. Marco was there, even if he couldn't see him, and it was enough to get him through a few hours of fitful sleep.

He awoke to pen markings, scribbled across the back of his hand.

 

_Good morning, Jean._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is under some construction, so if it goes down for a day or two this week, I'm just polishing it. It will be back. :)
> 
> \--

Everything about that morning aggravated Jean.

The sunlight burned his exhausted eyes. The air was unusually cold when he finally peeled away his blankets. The shuffling of the others seemed louder than it had been since they were new recruits, and in the chaos he lost track of time and didn't have a single private moment in which to try speaking to Marco. By the time they sat down for their morning meal, he was angry enough to sit alone, glaring at anyone who came within a few feet of him.

Armin didn't seem to notice - at least not at first.

"Good morning Jea--" he stopped midsentence when Jean looked up at him sharply, almost appalled that he'd dared to use the same words Marco had scribbled onto his skin the night before.

"Oh, um... is everything alright?" Armin continued, more cautiously. It dawned on Jean that Armin and the others didn't _know_ he'd been awake all night, talking to the ghost of their former friend, and that it was probably for the best. He nodded his head in what he knew was a completely unconvincing manner, but Armin - gripping his tray of food like he might've been about to run - seemed to accept it. "Ok... that's good. I'll... just go and sit with Eren. See you later, Jean."

Jean nodded again, but his eyes had already fallen to his hand, once again studying the writing on the skin there. One side still faintly read _'Believe me now?',_ while the other had a morning greeting scrawled in darker, more deliberate script. He stared at both instead of making eye contact with anyone, and barely noticed the fact that he sat alone for the entire meal.

\--

He fumbled his way through the rest of his day by continuing to avoid the others and stare off into the horizon as often as he was able to. He relived every minute of the previous night at least twice in his head, trying to wrap his sleep deprived brain around the little bit of sense that he could make out of the situation. The writing on his hands faded as he sweat through chores, and he hated himself for washing up that afternoon. Glowering down into a wash basin, he barely heard Connie approaching from behind him, and when the other boy laid a hand on his shoulder, Jean turned with a snap and caught hold of his arm, nearly throwing him across the floor.

"The hell is your problem, Jean?!" Connie hissed, straightening himself and blushing slightly at Sasha's laughter from a few yards away.

"Nothing" he lied, jumping to his feet and letting the water drain noisily. "Bad day." He resigned himself to that sentiment for the remainder of the day, anxiously anticipating the return to the barracks that evening.

\--

As soon as everyone was lying down, Jean began feverishly writing in his notebook. There was nearly no space left in which to scribble his thoughts, but he wrote them sideways and in patches until he'd jotted down everything. He wanted to make sure he remembered what he wanted to talk about that evening when Marco made an appearance. _What did Marco do all day while the others were out of the bunks? How much had he seen and heard of their lives since his death?_ There was so much that he wanted to ask. When he finished, he dropped the pen beside him and laid his head onto his folded arm, resting his tired eyes and listening at length for the sounds of slow, even breathing and snores from his roommates.

When he heard a small gasp and a rustling beside him instead, his eyes fluttered open and be glanced around. The room was oddly lit - almost glowing - and the air seemed unnaturally still. Looking down at the other beds he noticed that they were empty, all neatly made and untouched, except for his. He sat up and his lungs felt as if they'd collapsed when he saw the foot of his bed. There was a familiar face looking back at him, from atop two knees that were pulled in tight to a bare, freckled chest.

_"Marco"_ Jean breathed, and every piece of him wanted to fly forward and throw his arms around the other. But confusion kept him solidly in place, and panic spread through him as he realized how different the world they were sitting in appeared.

"Is this... am I _dead?"_ He whispered. Marco shook his head but did not move.

"Then is this real?" He asked quickly, looking around the eerily lit room again. "Are you--" He reached forward and placed a hand on Marco's leg, but felt nothing beneath his fingers, even as they tangled in the fabric of the pants there.

"Just a dream, I'm afraid" Marco said with a sad smile. He lifted a hand to meet Jean's and threaded their fingers together, but still Jean felt nothing. "It's nice to talk to you, though." Marco added, and Jean suddenly recalled the night before.

"So... it's really you, though? I mean, we're not really _here_ , but I'm really me, and you're really you?"

Marco laughed, and Jean's chest felt tight again in a completely different way. Hearing his friend's voice again made the situation many times less frightening.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Jean." He said, still smiling. Jean tried to organize his thoughts into coherent sentences but failed miserably as they came spilling out in haphazard bursts.

"I mean, if this isn't real, am I gonna remember it when I wake up? I mean, right now I can remember stuff that happened outside of the dream from before, like in real life. The whole talk we had last night, you know? I remember that. I had a bunch of things I wanted to ask you, too - but I can't really remember those right now. And you - are _you_ going to remember this? I mean, you're not sleeping, right? You probably don't sleep, but then why are you here? Not that I don't want you to be, but _how_ are you even--"

"Jean."

He looked up and saw Marco looking back with that familiar, patient look he wore so often when the two of them would talk and it brought Jean's racing thoughts to a halt. Without thinking he crawled forward, settling a few inches in front of Marco, and watched him expectantly.

"You want to know how we got here" he restated, calmly. Jean nodded. "I saw that you had dozed off and I decided to drop in and see you here. This is one place where I can actually talk to you." He motioned around them. Jean's eyes widened.

"Wait, so this is actually happening? We've... you've done this before?"

Marco nodded. Jean felt a burning in his throat and tried to swallow it away, without success.

"Why didn't you say something before, then? If you can talk to me like this, why wait until last night to tell me you were here?"

"I've tried, Jean. Believe me - you never seemed to remember your dreams by the next morning, so after a while I gave up. I guess maybe now that you know that I'm real--"

"After a while? How many times have you been here?" Jean asked. Marco shrugged.

"I'm not exactly sure. But when I am we usually talk a lot and it's really nice." He looked Jean in the eye and his smile faltered. "Are you... does that bother you?"

"Well, kind of!" Jean said before he could stop himself. "I mean... dreams are _private_ , you know? I can't control them and I don't exactly want other people to know what goes on in them. Especially..." he trailed off, wondering if Marco had seen any of the dreams of Jean holding him, kissing him, _touching_ him in ways he had never actually done before. Embarrassment stung his cheeks, and he suddenly wished for the return of the feeling of numbness from before. Marco just shook his head.

"I'm sorry to make you feel like I was prying, I just... I _missed_ you. After the night of the fire, you hadn't been able to see or hear me, and I tried to leave you alone, because I thought maybe you--"

"The fire? You mean the night that they -- you _remember_ that?" Jean gasped. Marco nodded.

"Only bits and pieces. I remember talking to you, and you actually seeing me. I remember Connie and Sasha's faces, and I remember feeling lost and confused. It's like I didn't really have control over what I said or did until a few days later, I was almost like a memory or someone else's thought. Like I wasn't dead or alive. Then I was _nowhere_. The first solid memory I have of my own after that night was one morning here in the barracks. I woke up, lying on my bed - I thought it had all been a dream - but when I rolled over and tried to talk to you, you didn't answer. No one did. I haven't been back to sleep since."

Jean's embarrassment gave way to a feeling of empathetic sadness; his chest ached with the knowledge that Marco had suffered since his death, and had been alone in it. At least Jean had people to talk to, though he rarely chose to. He reached for Marco's hands.

"Can you feel anything?" He asked, curling his fingers over Marco's. Marco shook his head.

"Not here, no. Can you?"

Jean squeezed Marco's hands, scratched at his own, rubbed his face, but still felt nothing. "No" he said finally. "It's like I'm numb. I know I'm touching things, but I don't feel them."

"I think it's a dream thing" Marco offered. "Because I can feel when I touch things otherwise."

"You can?" Jean was too surprised to conceal his astonishment. "I thought ghosts couldn't... you know, actually - I'm not sure what I thought."

Marco laughed and then Jean did too. It was that comfortable, relieved laughter they'd so often shared, and when they were breathing normally again they were wiping at their eyes. Jean wasn't sure what kind of tears they were, but he was strangely glad to see that Marco had them as well.

"I'm the ghost and I still don't know what I think" he sighed. "But I know that now, when I concentrate on it, I can touch things with my hands and actually feel them. I can move things--"

"Like the pen" Jean breathed. Marco nodded.

"Like the pen. At first it was the tips of my fingers, but now I can use my whole hand. It doesn't make me any more visible, but at least I was able to communicate."

"And you chose me. Why?"

Marco raised an eyebrow. "Why not? I told you I missed you; don't act like you didn't miss me too. We were sort of a team, you and I. You were my closest friend. Still are." Jean nodded slightly; hearing Marco say those things was something he wasn't aware that he'd wanted so badly. Eyes stinging again, he quickly changed the subject.

"So when you're not trying, are you just--" he waved his hands around, trying to think of a word to use. "Can you walk through things and fly around and all that?" He finally asked, giving up.

"Yeah."

"Well at least there's that!" Jean grinned. Marco rolled his eyes.

"Oh yeah, I'm _so_ glad I lost out on my life and everything in it to be able to walk through tables and fly around rooms!" He deadpanned. "Definitely a great trade!"

"You didn't lose everything" Jean responded, quieted somewhat by the guilt he felt at his words. "You still have me."

Marco stared at him for a moment, wordless. When he reached between them to take Jean's hands again he did it with a reserved smile and a whisper. "And for that, I'm thankful."

"Likewise" Jean replied, and numbly wrapped his fingers around the hands holding his. He pulled them up, toward his face and Marco responded by cupping his chin.

"Marco... you said that you've seen some of my dreams before."

"I've been in them with you" he corrected. Jean nodded, careful not to knock Marco's palm away from his face.

"Right. Well, what happened in them?"

To Jean's great frustration, Marco only shrugged. "Talking" he said after a moment, then smiled widely. "And laughing."

"Anything else?"

"Why do you ask, Jean?" It wasn't the answer he wanted, and he would've likely gotten defensive, if Marco hadn't been inching closer.

"No reason" he muttered. "I just... didn't know it was really you. I don't remember everything I dream about, so I didn't wanna... do something embarrassing."

With that, Marco pulled his hands back to himself suddenly, wrapping them around his stomach as he laughed loudly.

"When has getting embarrassed ever been a thing with us, Jean? Some of the things you've said to me before, I--"

"Things that were never supposed to leave the bunks!" Jean hastily reminded him.

"Jean, who am I going to tell your secrets to?" He motioned around them, at the empty barracks. "Even when I could, you know I wouldn't have."

He looked at Jean fondly, and Jean felt his heart leap into his throat. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Marco's chin. Marco looped an arm around his neck, though where it came to rest, Jean couldn't feel. They sat that way for a few minutes, Marco almost holding him, saying nothing. When they did pull apart from each other, Marco must've noticed the wet shine in Jean's eyes; he returned a hand to his face almost immediately.

"Jean, what's--"

He needed to _tell_ him. He needed to let him know that he'd developed all these weird _feelings_ since he'd lost him, and that he didn't just see Marco as his best friend anymore. He needed Marco to know what was going on, so he could leave, could disappear again if that's what he wanted to do. But that was the last thing Jean wanted, and instead of warning Marco to get out while he still could, Jean buried his face against his open hand and rasped out Marco's name, before his throat slammed itself shut and forbid him to say anything further.

Marco wrapped both arms around his shoulders and pulled them closer together, letting Jean lay his head onto his chest. Jean couldn't feel it, but he recognized Marco's movements as he swirled his fingers through Jean's hair, and the motions were comforting. There was no sound of a heartbeat beneath his ear, but the ministrations of his hands made Marco's chest rise and fall in an even pattern, and it was enough for Jean to believe they were _both_ alive, at least for the moment.

His list of questions long forgotten, Jean drank in the silence of sitting there, wrapped up in Marco. He still wondered if Marco had seen more of his dreams than he was letting on, or how much he really knew of the way Jean felt about him. Curled up beside him though, it almost seemed irrelevant. _This was enough,_ he told himself. This was more than he'd hoped for just a few days before.

_"Jean?"_

The voice was distant at first. He glanced up at Marco, who looked back at him in confusion, mouth closed as the call came again.

_"Jean? Jean?!"_

It was louder, and with repetition it began to shake the bed on which they sat, the walls and floors of the empty room around them.

_"Jean!"_

With a boom the voice sounded once more, and everything in sight began to evaporate. Jean turned back to Marco, who was shimmering in the low light and dissipating along with the smoky remnants of their surroundings. He reached for Jean, but their hands each slipped through the other's, and then Marco was gone, and there was only darkness. Jean closed his eyes and opened them again with a start, hoping everything would reappear. When the light hit his eyes, it was not Marco's face, but Eren's that was looking back at him.

"Kirschtein, get up!" He prodded. He shook Jean's shoulders and the sinking feeling of realization swept over Jean; the dream was over, and the night along with it. He glared back at Eren who shook the bed frame, repeating his name.

"Jean, get up, you're going to make us all late!"

Jean sat upright, tossed his blankets aside and punched Eren squarely in the shoulder. Through Eren's enraged cursing he could hear the laughter and talking of the others, and wished more than ever that he could crawl back into his bed and sleep, be left alone long enough to have the chance to dream some more. Wiping at his weary eyes, he felt fingers curl around his, and pulled his hand away quickly in response. Looking around he saw no one, save for Eren glowering at him from where he stood beside Armin. Yet the feeling of fingers on his skin remained, and as they looped more tightly around his - invisible but wonderfully tangible - he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips.


End file.
